"Henry!" Shielding her eyes from the early morning sun (her gas station shades are definitely on their last legs), Emma issues her son a stern warning. "Don't go too far, okay?"

Her ten year-old son pauses, clearly fighting the urge to roll his eyes at what she's sure he considers over-the-top motherly restrictions, then gives her a simpering smile that has her biting the inside of her cheek. "Of course."

Dumping her straw carryall onto the sand, she pulls her giant circular towel out of its depths, feeling a little like Hermione with her magical purse. The thought makes her smile, even as she reminds Henry she's not kidding around. "I mean it, kid."

"I know."

His voice is quiet, and she pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head in time to see his expression take on a melancholy tinge. "It's not that I don't trust you-"

Henry digs one big toe into the sand, his gaze sliding away from hers. "I don't plan on jumping on a bus to try to find my dad again any time soon, if that's what you're worried about."

Emma swallows everything she would like to say about his dad, just as she always does. One day, she'll tell him how it really was, but not today. Not today, when she doesn't have to work and the sun and the water are a matching shade of the most beautiful blue. "It wasn't, but I'm gonna hold you to that promise anyway."

A hint of a smile creeps back into his face as she shakes out her towel as dramatically as she can, and they both watch it settle on the sand in a brightly patterned circle.

"That thing is huge."

"More than enough room for two." She flashes her son a mischievous grin. "If you're not going to explore, you could always sit here with me and read one of the books I brought-"

"See ya!" With that, he's gone, one hand raised in a farewell salute, the other clutching the sandcastle building paraphernalia that had been a gift from the Nolans for his last birthday. She isn't Henry's teacher this year, but Mary Margaret had still picked up on his recent devotion of all things medieval, not to mention sand sculptures. He's never really been into the same stuff as his peers, and it makes Emma proud that he's never been embarrassed to march to the beat of his own drum, so to speak.

Their last trip to this beach (almost a year ago) had accidentally coincided with the annual sandcastle competition, and Henry had spent the whole day wide-eyed with awe. During the week, Henry had politely announced that he wanted to enter the next competition and that he 'needed practice'. Feeling in dire need of a few hours of blissful nothingness in the sun, Emma had decided that today seemed as good a time as any to dust off their swimsuits and hit the sand.

She peers after Henry for a good five minutes, and when she's satisfied his chosen building site is 'workplace safe', as David Nolan would say, reaches for the book she's been trying to read for the last month. She's read the first chapter at least three times now - work and Henry and life keep getting in the way. Maybe, she thinks hopefully as she stretches out on her stomach, today will finally be the day she can finally start the next chapter.

The sun is warm on his bare feet, the only part of his body not shaded by the huge beach umbrella his brother insisted on hauling along this morning. It's all very civilised, he must admit. When he closes his eyes, the sound of sea birds, gently breaking waves and muted human chatter means he could almost anywhere in the world.

"Fancy a quick hit of cricket?"

Alas, he is still in Boston, playing tour guide - and third wheel - during Liam and Annie's babymoon, as they called it. Dreadful buzzword, he's decided. They weren't originally planning to visit his adopted city, but thanks to his own life going spectacularly to shite in the last few months, he had become an official stop on their itinerary.

(A pity visit, as it were.)

His brother seems irritatingly determined to make the best of their time together, and while Killian loves the man more than he'll ever admit in public, he's just about ready to disown him.

"With just the two of us?" Killian scoffs without opening his eyes. "Don't be daft."

"Swim?"

He's not inclined to be the only one in the water wearing a black brace on one wrist. "Perhaps later."

His brother's tone takes on a seriously mocking edge. "Cornetto?"

"I'm not trudging all the way to the shop to buy you an ice-cream, mate."

A feminine clearing of the throat interrupts the conversation. "Leave him be, Liam." Reclining in the beach chair between them, his sister-in-law peers at her husband over the top of her sunglasses, her hands resting on the high curve of her belly. "He can relax any way he likes."

Killian briefly cracks open one eye to ensure he's patting his sister-in-law's arm rather than his unborn niece or nephew. "Thank you, my dear."

Liam scoffs. "He's not relaxing, he's sulking."

"You know, I'm right here."

"If you're just going to sit there and brood all morning, you could have just stayed home."

"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing."

"Could you not perhaps cheer up in the slightest possible sense?"

Annie's voice cuts through their bickering like a delicate blade through tapioca sludge. "Boys."

"Right, I'm off for a swim." Deciding that being the only one in the water wearing an arm brace is far less annoying than listening to his brother try to nag him into a better frame of mind, Killian gets to his feet. "Happy now?"

Liam grins. "It's a start."

He makes his way down to the water, pleased to see that several others are also wearing swim shirts. Of course, most of those people are under twelve and their shirts are adorned with turtle emblems rather than plain black like the one he's sporting. However, between helping disguise his clumsy brace and compensating for the fact he can't quite manage the sunscreen procedure one-handed, he's prepared to lose a smidge of fashion credibility.

The water is absolutely glorious, and he berates himself for waiting so long to take the plunge, as it were. The sensation of weightlessness is beyond welcome. He feels more at ease in his own skin than he has in months, and even though he knows the real world will return as soon as his feet touch the sand, for the moment, it's pure bliss.

He stays in the water for almost half an hour, catching the occasional gentle wave closer to the shore, but mostly treading water and moving his arms in lazy circles. If he'd had this kind of hydrotherapy available after he'd broken his wrist, he might not resent the contraption on his arm quite so much.

Finally, imagining Liam and Annie might wish to swim but not want to leave their belongings unattended, he reluctantly drags himself from the water. Smoothing back his wet hair, he carefully picks his way through the sun worshippers and several piles of damp sand. This beach is the site of a massive sandcastle festival every summer, but today is clearly amateur hour.

Something of an understatement, he thinks with a wry smile as he catches sight of the young boy fifteen feet or so to his right. The lad seems determined to do his best with the resources at hand, but he's clearly finding the foundation work a struggle. Killian finds himself watching the boy's endeavours, admiring the way he regroups every time an unstable castle wall collapses. When the youngster only shakes his hand and presses on after an almost complete turret topples sideways, Killian is strolling towards him before he can think twice about it.

"You look like you could do with a hand, mate."

"I know." The child looks up at him from beneath the rim of his sunhat, his freckled countenance an amusing mix of hope and rebuke. "I shouldn't be talking to strangers, though."

"As it should be." Killian nods approvingly. "Whoever taught you that rule is a very wise person."

The boy prods at a crumbling sand wall with his spade, his mouth turning down at the ends. "My mom, and she is."

"Then I shall be on my way. Good luck with your fortifications, lad."

"Wait." He gestures over his shoulder with the spade. "My mom's right over there reading her book, and if we knew each other, then we wouldn't be strangers, right?" he cajoles as only a child can, then glances up at Killian, his expression once again hopeful. "I'm Henry."

Cheeky little bugger. Killian scans the nearby swathe of supine bodies on the sand - any one of them could be the mother in question - then puts out his hand. "Killian Jones, at your service."

The boy's eyes widen, but he shakes Killian's hand with a surprisingly firm grip. "Please to meet you."

Killian points over his own shoulder to where his family is reclining beneath the large umbrella. Liam appears to be dozing but his sister-in-law, bless her heart, waves back. "That's my big brother and his wife. He's a bit of a plonker, but she's very respectable and will vouch for my character should you require her to do so."

"Plonker." Henry grins as he repeats the word with obvious relish. "You guys aren't from around here, are you?"

"Well spotted." Killian gestures towards the sorry excuse for a castle, wearing his best poker face. Not a bad attempt, but only if one were looking for that dodgy theme park vibe. He hesitates, then realises he truly has nothing better to do this morning. "We're from a faraway land where castles are plentiful, which makes me the ideal person to help you create your masterpiece."

Henry eyes his lopsided structure, then the brace on Killian's left wrist. Before the boy can say anything, Killian waves it cheerily in the air. "Don't worry about this, my lad. I've become quite adept at doing things with one hand over the last few months."

"You're hired." The kid grins. "Where do we start?"

Killian eyes the spot Henry on which had chosen to build. "Well, for starters, you'll never get anything to stay upright there."

They relocate proceedings to a patch of flat sand not far from Liam's giant beach umbrella, Henry assuring him more than once that his mum will still be able to see him from her chosen spot.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!" Henry arranges his assortment of buckets on the sand with undisguised anticipation. "She tracks down bad guys for a living, trust me. She'll find me."

Killian raises his eyebrows at that titbit, then accepts his fate. He hadn't planned on babysitting today, but it appears the universe (and young Henry) had other ideas. "Fair enough, lad."

It's been an eternity since he last built a sandcastle, but it seems Killian's chosen career has sharpened his eye in more ways than one. After a brief lull preparing their materials - the lad has an impressive array of building tools – they set to work, the construction accompanied by the most thorough grilling Killian's been given in an age.

"What kind of house do you live in?"

"I live in an apartment here in Boston."

"What about your brother?"

"He doesn't live in a castle, if that's what you're thinking."

"Are you the big or little brother?"

"Younger brother, thanks very much."

"How did you hurt your hand?"

"I drank a little too much one night and I took a tumble."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore."

"Are you a builder?"

"Marine draftsman."

"You build boats?"

"That's the engineer's job. I just create the blueprints."

"Sounds cool."

"It is pretty cool, I must say."

At least, it had been cool, until he'd split with both Milah and the company they'd started together and he'd found himself drinking more and more every night until he'd finally slipped over in his own bloody kitchen and broken his wrist.

"I believe you have my full dossier now, young sir. Unless there's any else you'd like to know?"

Henry appears engrossed in the handful of shells he'd collected, but his next question implies his thoughts are elsewhere. "Are you married?"

Killian hesitates – he's not really in the mood for juvenile matchmaking - then gives himself a mental shake. It's a harmless question, even if it does make his heart twist unhappily. "No," he answers, and the boy grins as he suddenly casts the shells aside.

"Can we have a drawbridge?"

Bloody hell. "How about a nice staircase instead?"

Somewhere between hauling water from the sea and discussing whether turrets are truly a viable option, Liam and Annie leave the shade of the umbrella to be introduced properly, barely able to conceal their amusement at Henry's solemn handshake.

"Well, this is all rather exciting." Annie crouches down beside Henry as well as she can manage. "You look like you've done this before."

Henry shakes his head as he carefully loads one of the larger buckets with more sand. "We don't come to the beach very often. My mom has to work a lot because the goddamned bills never stop."

The youngster is clearly quoting his mother, and Killian feels a pang of empathy. He and Liam had spent many a weekend wishing they could afford the kind of outings their school mates took for granted.

His brother and sister-in-law hover around the periphery, offering suggestions ranging from the helpful (Annie feels a moat is pointless busy work) to the ridiculous (I really think you should add a dragon, says his brother, the git).

Soon their castle is looking pretty bloody impressive, even if Killian does say so himself, but suddenly an irritated female voice behind him slices through the warm air like a cold sword.

"Henry, what the hell?"

Beside him, his young companion looks more than a little sheepish. "Hi, Mom."

Ah. Twisting in the direction of the new arrival, Killian opens his mouth to offer an apology, but his voice dies in his throat, because Henry's mother is a veritable vision of loveliness.

A visibly angry vision of loveliness, but a vision nevertheless.

Blonde hair piled on top of her head in a messy Grecian knot, long, graceful arms and astonishingly good legs bared by an intriguing strapless costume he has no idea what to call but fits her like a glove. A heart-shaped face, a delicately dimpled chin and a generous mouth seals his fate. His pulse quickens, his mouth goes dry, the tiny voice inside his head is screeching at him to bloody well do something.

"Ah, my apologies, ma'am."

He almost feels Liam and Annie take a step backwards as he scrambles awkwardly to his feet, silently cursing both the uneven sand and his wrist brace. Even from behind her dark sunglasses, he can feel the weight of the woman's wrathful stare. "I've just been helping-"

"Save your breath, I'm not in the mood." She cuts him off without so much as another glance, her attention focused firmly on her son. "So much for not wandering off."

"Look on the bright side." The lad clears his throat, his mouth stretched in a forced, overbright smile. "At least I didn't get on a bus this time, am I right?"

"What do you mean he's not at school today?" Fear clutches at her heart. "I dropped him at the front gate myself."

"He must have waited until you'd driven off and then gone off on some adventure of his own." Mary Margaret's voice is calm and soothing over the phone, but it does absolutely nothing to chase away the dread tying Emma's stomach in knots.

"I'll give him adventure," Emma mutters darkly as she scrambles to her feet and heads for Henry's bedroom. One rule of for computer privileges in their house is no passwords, and within minutes she's scanning his browsing history, her phone on speaker on the desk beside the mouse. "If he's gone off on some crazy roleplay thing on a school day, I'll-"

Her voice cracks and dies in her throat as she sees the last couple of websites Henry had visited, and her friend is quick to notice. "Emma, sweetie, what is it?"

Emma blinks furiously, trying to pretend her eyes are blurring with hot tears. "He's gone to New York." No point in checking her credit card statement, because the trail is here, laid out like fucking breadcrumbs for her to find. She glares at the screen in mulish challenge, but nothing can change the fact that she's dealing with a return ticket from Boston to New York and a confidential report from .

"He's gone to find Neal."

Emma wakes with a start, feeling hot and disorientated. She blinks slowly, frowning at the sound of water and sea birds, then snaps back to reality with a jolt. Her bare shoulders twinge with discomfort as she rolls onto her back and scrambles to her feet, but all she wants to do is to check on Henry.

Henry is nowhere to be seen. The fog of her unsettling dream still clogging her head, she fights back a rising sense of panic.

He's fine.

He's just moved to another spot.

Or maybe he went for a swim without her, which he is absolutely not allowed to do.

She grabs her towel, sending a spray of sand flying, then slings her carryall over her shoulder, wincing when the straw rubs her sun-reddened skin. As usual, she's missed a spot with the sunscreen, but that's the least of her concerns right now. Damn it, Henry.

It only takes her a moment to find her son, but that's sixty seconds filled with the kind of dread that makes her stomach turn inside out and fill her head with terrible thoughts. The relief that surges through her at the sight of his familiar red and grey sunhat makes her knees knock. As she gets closer, she sees he's building a freaking huge sandcastle with some guy she's never seen before, and her relief is immediately followed by a healthy shot of anger.

It's one thing to wander off, but something else altogether to be hanging out with a stranger, even if it is on a public beach. It's hard to stomp imposingly across soft sand, but she gives it her best shot. "Henry, what the hell?"

Her offspring turns his face upwards, his brown eyes wide in mock surprise, his most earnest expression pasted on. If she hadn't just had that shitty dream, his performance might almost make her laugh. "Hi, Mom."

Before she can read Henry the riot act, the guy playing happy families with her son lurches to his feet. To his credit, he looks pretty embarrassed. He's also pretty hot, but she's going to pretend she doesn't notice that particular detail.

"Ah, my apologies, ma'am." He gestures to Henry with his left hand, and she can't help clocking the black brace on his wrist. "I've just been helping-"

"Save your breath, I'm not in the mood." Random Dude is not only the best-looking man she's seen in months, he also has her favourite romcom accent and seriously, this is too much to ask of her. She turns determinedly to Henry, doing her best to pretend the guy isn't there. "So much for not wandering off."

Her son peers up at her, and has the good sense to offer her an apologetic smile. "Look on the bright side. At least I didn't get on a bus, right?"

She inhales a sharp breath through her nose while counting to ten. "Thin ice, kid, thin ice."

"Mom, this is Killian Jones." Henry gets to his feet, using his bright yellow spade as a pointer between them. "Killian Jones, this is my mom, Emma Swan."

Emma doesn't want to notice that Killian Jones has dark hair and bright blue eyes and a stubble-covered jaw that might actually be carved from marble, but she's wearing shades, not blinkers. Before she can speak, he quickly dusts off his right hand on the seat of his black shorts and holds out his hand with the cautious air of a man attempting to diffuse a bomb. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm so sorry moving the building site of Henry's creation caused you distress."

She ignores the outstretched hand. "I'm more concerned with the fact he's hanging out with an unknown adult male, buddy," she shoots at him, and his pretty face falls. "You make sandcastles with other people's kids on a regular basis?"

A dark-haired woman in a floaty green wrap appears at the guy's shoulder, her smile beyond apologetic. "I'm so sorry, we should have made sure you knew when Henry was."

Emma puts the woman at around six months into her pregnancy, and is annoyed by the flash of disappointment that streaks through her. Hot Random Dude is taken, it seems. "Thanks," she answers with a tight smile. "You know how it is."

"Entirely my fault," the guy interjects, his face almost a twin for Henry's earnest expression. "I'm donning the mantle of uncle in a few months," he gestures towards the woman beside him, "so I seized the chance for some much-needed practice."

Uncle. Not father.

Not that she cares.

"Though, in my defence," he goes on, ducking his head and catching her gaze with those startlingly blue eyes, "I should point out that your son is very good at convincing people to go along with a plan."

This time, she can't stop herself from smiling. "Preaching to the choir here, trust me."

His gaze drops to her mouth, his own lips curling in a quick smile, and her stupid heartbeat ratchets up a notch. "There's plenty of room beneath in the shade here if you'd like to join us?" He scratches the back of his neck in an almost nervous gesture. "While Henry finishes his masterpiece, I mean."

Emma feels as though she's being swept along by an invisible current, her feel scrambling to stay grounded. Henry's new friend is charming and handsome and wants to hang out with them both, which means it's time for her to scram before she does something she'll regret. "Thanks, but we'll be heading home soon."

"I can't finish the castle?" Henry looks horrified, and she immediately feels like the worst mother in the world. "Can't we stay a while longer?"

"You'd be doing us a great favour." A tall, curly-haired man with blue eyes similar to Killian's emerges from beneath the umbrella, a baseball cap in hand. "I'm Liam, pleased to meet you, and if you can keep my brother out of mischief while my lovely wife and I go for a romantic stroll, I would be eternally grateful."

Emma blinks. "I- er-"

Later, she will blush when she remembers how quickly her resolve unravels. After some playful brotherly shoving, the expectant parents drift away, hand in hand, and Emma finds herself stretched out on a beach chair underneath the Jones' family umbrella, a bottle of chilled water in her hand, watching Henry put the finishing touches on a truly amazing sand castle. His face is alive with joy, and Emma has to face the unhappy suspicion she might have been a little harsh on Killian Jones.

"Sorry about before." Determinedly not looking at the man sitting beside her, she scratches at the water bottle label with her thumbnail. "Henry's obviously having a ball."

He stretches out his legs in front of him, crossed at the ankles, given Emma ample opportunity to admire lean calves dusted with dark hair and a pair of surprisingly shapely feet. His skin is pale against the black of his boardshorts and swim shirt, but given his country of origin, she's hardly surprised. "On the contrary, your reaction was perfectly understandable."

After this gallant admission, there's a silence that's not exactly awkward, more expectant, but it still makes her nervous. Sure, she's half-naked thanks to this strapless jumpsuit, but apart from the head-to-toe once over he gave her when she first arrived, he's been the perfect gentleman, so it's not that. May it's just because it's been a while since she's been on a date – not that this is a date in any shape or form. She has to admit, her small talk skills are kind of rusty.

Thankfully, he saves her the trouble. "So, Henry says you track down bad guys for a living."

Emma sighs. She really does need to have another talk to her son about boundaries and privacy. "He makes it sound more dramatic than it is, I'm afraid. I'm a bail bonds officer."

"Sounds dramatic to me."

It's what most people say when they learn what she does for a living, but she forgives him for being predictable. "You're probably thinking of the glamorous version you've seen on TV."

He laughs at that, a soft snuffle of amusement. "I binge-watched four seasons of 'The Bill' when I broke my wrist, so I'm not the best person to comment on glamorous television."

Funny and hot. She really should escape now while she's still got enough willpower. "How did you break your wrist?"

"Self-inflicted idiocy, I'm afraid."

"Is it just the three of you on vacation?" She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head as she speaks, forcing herself to actually turn and look at him.

"Yes, unless the wee one makes a very early appearance." He shifts his gaze from the sandcastle to answer her, breaking off mid-sentence as his gaze locks with hers, the awareness flaring in his vivid eyes makes her stomach tighten. He clears his throat, his long fingers gently tapping the brace. "My brother thought some sea air might do us all some good."

She watches the graceful movement of his hand, and knows she can't blame the sun for the heat creeping up the back of her neck. She's not winning her private battle to be sensible at all. "No beaches in England?"

He flashes her a grin, his teeth white against the dark stubble. "None as impressive as this one."

There's just enough innuendo in his tone to let her know he's not just talking about the beach, and again there's a ridiculous flutter of butterflies in the pit of her stomach. "Why Boston?"

"I live here."

"Oh!" She's not sure to be nervous or pleased by this revelation. "I thought you were all world travellers."

"I've been here almost five years now." He tilts his head in the direction in which his brother and his wife had vanished. "Those two wanted to do some travelling before the baby arrived, so-"

Emma doesn't bother hiding her amusement. "You're mooching in on their babymoon? That's ballsy."

Still smiling, he rolls his eyes. "That term is beyond preposterous and needs to be stricken from the English language."

"Ballsy?" Okay, she's flirting now. Judging by his answering smirk, Killian Jones is more than happy with this development.

"They insisted." He waves his left hand in the air with a flourish. "Apparently, they couldn't wait to watch me brood over a broken wrist and a broken heart in person rather than making do with Skype."

This isn't small talk anymore, she realises with a mild sense of panic. This is disclosure, and she shouldn't take the bait but - "Sounds like you've had a rough time of it lately."

"Let's just say that if I'd ever been bothered to use Facebook, I would have had to have changed my employment and relationship status in one fell swoop." He grimaces dramatically, then shakes his head, his smile rueful. "I seem to be healing well, though, so silver lining and all that."

"Your wrist or your heart?" Emma can't quite believe she's having this conversation on a Saturday morning on a beach with a relative stranger, but she's tired of playing it safe, tired of pretending that she's entirely happy with how her life is going. Maybe it's time she took a few risks outside working hours.

"The pain is fading on both accounts, I must say." He shifts on the beach chair, angling himself towards her chair in a way she doesn't have to be a body language expert to understand. "Although I doubt it's the sea air."

Once again, the sudden heat in her face has nothing to do with the sun. Losing her nerve momentarily, she turns to watch Henry, who is playing some kind of game around the sandcastle, which seems to involve fighting invisible enemies with an invisible sword. The sight of him, happy and healthy, squeezes her heart with tenderness, just as it always does. It doesn't matter that she had to dip into her savings for gas money for this trip. What matters is that they're together.

"That castle is amazing, by the way." She's not exaggerating. It could easily be an entry in that damned sandcastle contest Henry keeps talking about.

"It was a joint effort." He glances at Henry, and she sees him grin as her son executes a particularly dramatic thrust and parry. "Your lad is a very good apprentice."

"I hope you didn't make him do all the water hauling," she shoots back, her tone teasing, and he looks charmingly offended.

"I'll have you know I'm a big believer in equity in the workplace." She feels him looking at her then, his gaze sweeping over her bare arms and shoulders, and she has to suppress a shiver. "Please don't take this as a sign I've been leering at you, love, but your shoulders are quite pink."

"Yeah, I know." She rummages in her carryall for her spray bottle of aloe mixture, grateful for the distraction. "Must have missed a few spots with the sunscreen this morning."

"Ah."

Seeing the pleased quirk of his lips, she rolls her eyes. "Typical male response."

"Whatever do you mean?"

That's twice in two minutes she's put that offended expression on his ridiculously handsome face, she thinks, and can't help feeling a little proud. "I put my sunscreen on myself this morning, so you're assuming I'm single." As she mists the aloe spray over her shoulders and the back of her neck, she can almost feel him watching her. "Admit it, that's what you were thinking."

There's a beat of silence, then he clears his throat. "Are you seeing anyone?"

"Wow." It takes her two attempts to put the plastic cap back on the spray bottle, her fingers suddenly clumsy. "Talk about cutting to the chase."

"I'm a little out of practice," he admits with a sheepish smile that does very odd things to her insides. "I shouldn't have asked, I'm sorry."

"It's okay." She hesitates, buying time by shoving her aloe spray back into her bag, feeling faintly giddy. She doesn't do spontaneous, but Killian Jones has managed to pique her interest a lot more than any of her dates with their fancy dinners and fancy words over the last year, and she's known him for less than an hour. "No one serious."

His smile lights up his whole face, and she belatedly notices the dimples that had been hiding beneath the dark stubble. Oh, this is bad.

"What about you?"

Okay, so that was her voice, asking a question she'd literally just vowed she wouldn't ask. She'd blame the sun, but -

Still grinning, Killian Jones gestures to the front of his black swim shirt, and she tries (and fails) not to notice how the thin fabric clings to the contours of his chest and stomach. "Behold, the sunscreen substitute for the single man."

"Mom, can I have some water?"

Killian smiles at Henry's sudden arrival (he's obviously decided he's had enough of the sun), and Emma is quietly pleased he doesn't seem to resent to interruption. The quickest way for a man to become a non-entity as far as she's concerned is to assume he'll take priority over her child. "Sword fighting is thirsty work, I take it?"

"I think I swallowed some sand," Henry admits cheerfully, and Emma grins. She can't begrudge Henry his terrible timing, not when he's the reason she's sitting here with a ridiculously handsome man gazing at her as though she's the most amazing thing he's ever seen. She promptly hands Henry her bottle of water, then tugs him closer, pulling off his sunhat and smoothing back his damp hair.

"Did you vanquish the dragon, kiddo?"

Henry snorts, the sound more of a snuffle around the neck of the water bottle. "I was fighting trolls," he informs her with the kind of patience he usually reserves for walking her through a new level of a one of his video games. "Can I have your phone to take a picture of my sandcastle?"

Grinning, Emma fishes her phone out of her bag and hands it to her son, who passes back the empty water bottle with his free hand. "Knock yourself out."

"Preserved in the pages of history," Killian quips as Henry ducks out from underneath the umbrella once more. "I feel honoured."

Emma opens her mouth to reply, but Henry's already back, waving her phone in the air. "Killian, you should totally let me take your picture in front of it, okay?"

Then he's gone again, kicking up sand in his haste, and Emma wistfully tries to remember when she had that much energy. "You don't have to," she begins apologetically, but Killian is already getting to his feet.

"It's no trouble," he tells her cheerfully. "Your lad seems to have quite the career as a project manager ahead of him, I must say." He flashes her a smile that sends a ripple of warmth through her, right down to her sand-dusted toes, then he ducks his head under the umbrella and strides to where Henry is busily taking what looks like dozens of photographs.

Emma slips her sunglasses back on - as if that will make it less obvious that she's watching them – and tries to tell herself that she's not already halfway down the slippery slope of a schoolgirl-style crush on this guy.

"Mom! Can you come take our photo?"

She knew it was coming, but that doesn't mean she doesn't shake her head as she hauls her butt out of the comfortable beach chair. After discreetly making sure her jumpsuit is covering everything it should be covering, she arrives just in time to see Killian striking a dramatic pose beside the sandcastle, his hands on his hips, chin pointed skyward.

He catches her eye, and she's close enough to see the flush that touches his high cheekbones. "Is this where you tell me Henry asked you do to stand like that?"

He gives her a sweeping bow and, for an instant, she can easily imagine him wearing something a lot more old-fashioned than shorts and a swim shirt. "Tempting, but I cannot tell a lie. My buffoonery is all my own."

"No lying? That makes a nice change," she mutters under her breath, and he quirks one dark eyebrow at her.

"Pardon?"

Jesus, how good is this guy's hearing? "Nothing." His knowing smirk should annoy her, but instead she finds herself smiling, and seriously, what the hell is happening here?

She acts as photographer while Henry directs the impromptu photoshoot, acutely aware of Killian's appreciative gaze. "Okay, I'm done. It's too hot." Hot and bothered would be more accurate, she thinks with faint desperation. "I need the shade."

"Wait." Henry dashes across the sand to her side, slipping the phone from her grasp as deftly as any professional pickpocket. "I need one of you and Killian with the castle," says her son, the shameless matchmaker, and Emma feels the blood rush to her face.

"I don't think-"

"Please?"

"I promise to be the perfect gentleman," Killian tells her as he beckons her closer with a theatrical wave of his arm, but the suggestive wiggling of those dark eyebrows gives her pause. "Unless you'd prefer otherwise-"

"Henry did mention what I do for a living, didn't he?" She tosses Killian a saccharine sweet smile as she comes to stand beside him, planting her feet firmly in the sand as she leaves a good foot of air between them.

"He did, and I'm quaking in my non-existent boots, trust me."

As he promised, he's the perfect gentleman. Not once does his gaze stray downward to her chest, and he only uses his hands to point to the castle behind them. She can still feel the heat of him, the mingled scents of sea water and male deodorant teasing her nose, and the fluttering of attraction shimmers through her whole body like a shiver.

"All done?" She doesn't exactly spring away from him as soon as Henry's snapped what feels like half a dozen shots, but it's a close thing. She makes her way quickly back towards the Jones' family umbrella, shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation unfolding behind her.

"Killian, you should have copies of these photos," her son announces casually. "Put your number in my mom's phone and I'll send them to you."

Damn it, Henry. Emma says nothing, instead holding her breath as she waits to hear Killian's reply. She almost feels sorry for the guy, because he's got no idea he's about to pass or fail a very important test.

"Thank you for the offer, lad, but that's for your mum to decide." His tone is polite but firm, and Emma breathes out softly. "Besides, I'm quite sure I won't need any help remembering the best Saturday I've had in an age."

She ducks beneath the umbrella's welcome circle of shade, irritated by the subtle churning of nerves in the pit of her stomach. So he passed with flying colours, big deal. It's not as though she's going to be stupid enough to start anything with this guy, no matter how appealing the packaging. After Neal and Walsh and the dropkicks in between, she's much older and wiser these days.

Perching on the edge of the beach chair, she picks up her flip-flops and gently smacks them together to shake off the worst of the sand. It's a pointless exercise, she knows, but it gives her something to do with her hands while a figurative 'what happens now?' neon sign is flashing inside her head. Henry's ducked back to his sandcastle to take a few more pictures, but once he's done she really should grab him and say their goodbyes. She needs to escape back to her real life before the combination of sun and blue sky and proximity to an unfairly attractive man makes her do something she'll regret -

"Emma?" Killian crouches down beside her chair, close enough for her to notice the tips of his ears are pink. His gaze is steady, but there's an odd awkwardness in the way he rubs the back of his neck, the hesitant tone in his voice. "This might be rather bold of me, but I was wondering-"

He pauses, his gaze dropping to her mouth, then lifts to meet hers once more. The space between them seems much smaller, the air hot despite their shaded spot. Emma's breath catches in her throat but she doesn't back down. Instead, she feels herself leaning closer, her skin prickling with heat. "You were wondering what, exactly?"

His bright blue eyes gleam at her teasing tone, and her pulse flutters unsteadily. He opens his mouth to speak, but whatever Killian is about to say is going to have to wait, because behind them, Liam suddenly clears his throat with a dramatic flair that obviously runs in the family.

"Right, then. Who's hungry?"